Need To Know
by bj
Summary: An Annie Wright story. Who knows the difference between 'should know' and 'need to know'? Sequel to "Blocked."


Disclaimer: "The West Wing" and all related materials belong to Aaron Sorkin, NBC, etc. Annie Wright and all related materials belong to me. But that's not what you'd want to pay for, so that's not important. Anyway, she's made up, and if you want to pay for the real stuff, pay them, you fool.  
  
  
Need To Know  
By BJ Garrett  
  
With numb fingers, I turn off my monitor again. I just need to cry right now.  
  
This is the end. I'm done now. I stretched the truth, to use my father's favourite phrase. Oh, didn't I. And I did it so well.  
  
The tears tremble and spill onto my cheeks. They are hot and scalding, like the shame billowing inside me. I want to do that conversation again. But I'm done.  
  
The door cracks open again, the gap widens and I see his fingers curled over the edge of it. No. No.  
  
"Sorry to bother you again, but I think I want that recipe--Annie? What's wrong?"  
  
I've turned my chair back to the door and covered my face with my hands, wiping slowly, smoothly at my eyes. My mother taught me that one's face gets less red if one wipes slowly instead of scrubbing. People don't notice you've been crying if your face isn't red.   
  
"Nothing."  
  
"What are you doing?" His voice moves closer.  
  
I lean over and snap my blinds up, revealing my wholly unenviable view of some night-dark bushes and a boring swath of moonlit grass. "Just looking out the window. You want the recipe?"   
  
"Yeah. What's up?" If the monitor were on, he would be able to see my reflection in the window.  
  
"I'll bring it tomorrow. It's in my recipe box." Please leave.  
  
He shifts around for a moment.  
  
In a sharper tone that I intended, I repeat, "I'll bring it tomorrow, I said. I need to finish this assignment tonight, for God's sake."  
  
His hurt is palpable. It is a whimpering note in the quiet of my office.  
  
"Okay. I didn't mean to bother you." He retreats.  
  
The air is so heavy. I slump over in my chair and whisper, "I'm sorry."  
  
"Pardon me, Annie?" he asks, suddenly aloof.  
  
Pride swells, overtaking the shame. Nothing, Sam. I didn't say anything. Have a nice night. That would be the end of it. I could keep crying. Lose him. Carry around my lie forever like a braindead conjoined twin. That's a little over-dramatic, actually. Something unwieldy, heavy, and impossible to hide from yourself. Yes.  
  
No.  
  
"I'm sorry," I repeat firmly. "I didn't mean to snap at you. It's been a long couple of days, hasn't it?" I spin my chair back around, smear on a pathetic excuse for a smile.  
  
His forehead creases. He's concerned. Great. "Why don't you go home...no one's going to be listening for news of Senator Mealymouth, so--"  
  
I laugh. I can't help it. "Mealymouth?" I choke out.  
  
Shrugging, he nods. "Yeah. Go home, Annie. Finish it in the morning."  
  
Oh, I don't want his pity. Or his mercy. But sleep would be wonderful right now. I feel rotten. Sober again, I stand and put my computer to sleep. "Good idea. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
He goes back out the door, peeking in at the last moment to remark brilliantly, "Good night. Um, sleep tight."  
  
"Ditto."  
  
*  
  
There are fifty-six panels on the ceiling of my bedroom. One hundred-forty-two in the living room. Twenty in the kitchen. The bathroom ceiling is painted. There are five hundred tiles on the bathroom floor.  
  
The stoplight at the corner changes every minute and eighteen seconds, whether there are cars around or not.  
  
My neighbours have incredible sexual stamina. Upstairs and next door.  
  
No, David Letterman doesn't magically turn funny at two in the morning.  
  
It wasn't Josh and Toby. It was Colin and George, from Internal Communications. I'm convinced. I'm utterly exhausted.  
  
*  
  
"Annie, you look horrible."  
  
"Thank you, Patrice. That's just the sort of support I need this morning."  
  
I continue past the cubicles and into my office, closing the door sharply. Within half an hour I have turned on my computer, read my two memos--one informing me of a staff meeting at twelve, the other amending the time to eleven--and finished my Marles statement.  
  
I should go without sleep more often.  
  
"God, Annie. Did you get run over by a Mack truck last night or something?"  
  
Looking up, I give Sam a lethal glare. "Or something. What?" He doesn't look so hot himself. I bet he didn't even go home. No, more like shift work on Toby's couch, if that.  
  
He comes into the office. I don't know why, but it never feels like my office when he's in it. "I just wanted to let you know that you've got a meeting at eleven."  
  
"Yeah, staff." I flap the amendment memo.  
  
"No, staff's at ten."  
  
"Ten?" What the hell.  
  
"Yeah. The senior staff is leaving for Manchester at eleven-thirty, so staff's at ten."  
  
"You're leaving for Manchester?"  
  
"Yes. He's making the official announcement from there."  
  
"Oh." Okay. They're leaving at eleven-thirty. Okay. "So what's at eleven?"  
  
A little grin lifts his mouth. "The ILGJA gala team's first meeting."  
  
"Okay. In the Roosevelt Room, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So you and Toby are going to Manchester?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So who's in charge of the team?" I expect Bill, or maybe somebody from Press.  
  
"You."  
  
I should have expected that. Now I feel even worse. "Sam, really, you don't have to--"  
  
"I'm not. Toby is. I just agreed. I think it's a great idea."  
  
"It's a horrible idea. Look at me." Look at me. Can't you tell I'm the degenerate lying daughter of a degenerate liar? Who didn't get any sleep last night?  
  
"I'm looking."  
  
And he is.  
  
"I can't be in charge of a gala address when I'm like this--"  
  
"Have you seen Toby? He looks twice as bad as you, and Bartlet wants him in Manchester tonight, polishing off a speech which must, by necessity, rival the Gettysburg Address for, you know, brilliance."  
  
Well, I haven't seen Toby, but that would be a monumental task for someone fresh from the stable. But I can't do it...not when I've betrayed their trust. It's just not right.  
  
So what? I come clean?  
  
I guess I should.  
  
"About Marles, Sam."  
  
"Yeah? Is he fried, or what?"  
  
Or what. In a nutshell. "I didn't tell you everything about the meeting."  
  
He wasn't moving, but for some reason he looks like he's been frozen mid-movement. "What?"  
  
That man started talking about my father, and he expected me to laugh, and he knew about the MS, he must have because--  
  
"He said he was waiting for "something bigger" to come along." I make the little quoatation marks in the air, just like Marles did. "So no one would notice."  
  
The harmony of our tensions lifts into a perfect, singular pitch. It thrums in my small office. Now we both know. I wonder if this is what it would have been like that night, if I had been around to hear.  
  
"But nobody knew," he says, persuasively, as if to convince me I heard Marles wrong. "Nobody knew."  
  
Can't fool me. "Lots of people knew, Sam." I'm Annie Wright, Out-of-the-loop Girl.  
  
"Twenty-two people knew."  
  
That's not possible. There had to be more.  
  
"Twenty-two people knew, and it was twenty-one until Tuesday." I look over at him hesitantly. He nods. "Yeah." Taps his chest. "Cuz I was the last person." I swallow.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"We didn't...I didn't like to, I mean, I didn't want to keep it from you, but--"  
  
"I understand, Sam. Of all people, I understand. That's what he said. He was waiting."  
  
"Damn." He turns away, hand on his forehead. "Why didn't you say something?"  
  
You don't want to know. I don't want to tell you. Nobody's willing to have this conversation, so let's not. I shrug.  
  
"Answer me, Annie. Why didn't you say something?" His voice has turned hard, authoritative. As futile as it is, I hope he's not angry with me.  
  
"You asked if there was anything you needed to know. There wasn't."  
  
"When did you gain not only the ability to distinguish been 'should know' and 'need to know' but the right to decide what information is which? Tell me, Ms. Wright, when did you become a political strategist? Has Josh been giving you private lessons?"  
  
It stings. I can take it. "Well, sir--"  
  
With an explosive movement, he spins around and pins me with such a look. The wallpaper curls. "Don't call me sir. Don't go all submissive just because I'm mad." Sorry, I just-- "I'm tired of people not being truthful around here. I'm tired of people cutting me out of the loop. Let it all hang out. I want to know why you didn't say something to someone."  
  
Mutinously silent, I look away. If he's going to yell at me...  
  
In the mood he's in, it shouldn't surprise me when he takes my recalcitrance as a further admission of guilt. But it does.   
  
Slowly, quietly, he moves away from my desk. "You did tell someone," he accuses evenly, pointing at me.  
  
I arch a sceptical eyebrow.  
  
"You did." Oh, what an icy fury is building in his eyes. "Was it Leo? Or Toby? No, no, it was Josh, because Josh wanted blood. What a stupid--"  
  
"Don't call me stupid, Sam. I did not. I didn't tell anybody." I know I'm stupid. I don't need him to tell me. Jerk.  
  
"I don't believe you."  
  
"Of course not. I just lied through my teeth ten hours ago. Why would you believe me now?"  
  
He draws his chin back, looking at me down his nose.  
  
That silence falls again.  
  
And keeps falling, right through the floor. I want to follow it.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
I don't know. Because you're good, and I'm my father's daughter. I'm so stupid.  
  
But, yeah, he's standing there waiting for an answer that doesn't include a life history or declaration of devotion. So. "Because I knew it would harm more than help. Because I don't think he's worth it. Because...because it was twenty-one people until Tuesday, and the rest of the world on Wednesday, Sam."  
  
Basically.  
  
For an interminable second, our eyes lock. What can I say? It's done. Now we move on. I'm genetically programmed to be untrustworthy, and it's better he know that now.  
  
"Keeping me in the dark--again--isn't going to make me feel better, Annie." His teeth are gritted. "Though, naturally, I appreciate the gesture," he adds acidly.  
  
"You really suck at lying, you know," I reply crossly. I would know.  
  
Narrowing his eyes, he comes back with, "You didn't notice the first time."  
  
Ouch. I'm playing with the big boys now, obviously. "No, of course not. I trusted you the first time. Watch me never make that mistake again."  
  
"Ditto," he flings, stalking out of the office and slamming the door.  
  
It should feel like my office again.  
  
It doesn't.  
  
*  
  
Staff passes in a blur. Sam won't look at me. Everyone seems weary and fed up, and a little frightened of what will happen in Manchester. At twenty to eleven, Leo throws some papers down on his desk and tells us all to get out and relax until the flight.  
  
"Or gala meetings," he amends with a tired smile.  
  
I fear if I even crook my lips, my face will shatter and everyone will see what I've done, so I just nod. "Have a good trip, Leo."  
  
*  
  
Back in my office, I doodle on notes for the gala address and try to remember faces for the names of the people on my 'team.' I'm not worried about the meeting. Well, maybe a little. Mostly because none of these people have ever really considered me more than a glorified coffee trolley. But that was almost a month ago. I've had meetings with them since then, I've written with them since then.  
  
I've never been in charge of them though.  
  
"I need to talk to you," Sam says, coming into my office and closing the door quickly, without so much as a by-your-leave.  
  
"About?"  
  
He approaches my desk and looks down at me with somehow pitying eyes. "Your father."  
  
Goddammit. I'll kill him.  
  
*  
  
"You had no right to divulge personal information like that, Josh! My past is just that, and my father's career has no bearing on my job performance. It wasn't any of your business to start with--I chose to tell you about my father. That doesn't mean you can turn around and betray my trust to all and sundry."  
  
"Why don't you just go back into your nice, new little office and sulk because your baggage isn't as big as ours?" he commands, hands on his hips.  
  
If he really wants to play it that way. "Okay, sure. And you stay here in your dark, cluttered little office and play 'pity me, I've got post--'"  
  
"Annie!" Sam shouts, interrupting me. I think I'm glad. "Stop it. This is getting us nowhere."  
  
"Yeah," I agree, voice cracking.  
  
Josh nods and turns away.  
  
"I'm sorry, Annie, I thought it was common knowledge," Sam says calmly. "I didn't know you'd trusted Josh with something important."  
  
"It's not you," I reply. "He's the one who broke my confidence. It's not like you asked him or anything."  
  
Josh looks over his shoulder at Sam, who looks away. "He did ask me."  
  
"Oh, great."  
  
Running a hand through his hair, Sam admits, "I should have come to you if I wanted to know something."  
  
"No kidding."  
  
Josh's phone rings and he starts, then answers it. I don't know if I should glare at Sam or not, so I don't look at him at all.  
  
"Forty minutes? Okay. Thanks, Leo." Josh hangs up and nods at Sam. "Let's split."  
  
I feel a little redundant all of a sudden. "Well, have a good trip. I'll see you...later, I guess. Whenever you get back."  
  
Leaving, I hear someone behind me and turn to find Sam following. "What?"  
  
"I'll walk you back. I have to pick up my stuff anyway."  
  
We fall into step beside each other, not speaking. We pass Toby's office as he turns off his desk lamp and puts his coat over his arm. I don't think he notices us walk by.  
  
Silently, Sam turns into his office. I continue walking. I want to will all of this to wait until they get back, whenever that will be. But it won't. It'll all keep crashing even after they're gone. I come into my office and leave the door open a little bit. I kind of need the noise everyone's making out there getting ready for them to leave.  
  
So I lean on my desk and look out onto the impossibly green lawn outside. It's sunny today. It feels dark, gloomy. Lonesome. On my blotter is the print-out of the Marles statement. Good luck, goodbye. You shall be missed.  
  
Next door I hear Sam speaking to someone, then his door closes firmly. Ditto.  
  
"Annie?"  
  
I cross my ankles, lean forward onto my hands, feeling the edge of the desk bite into my palms. "Yeah?"  
  
"I just wanted to say goodbye."  
  
"Okay, yeah, goodbye, Sam. Have a nice flight."  
  
He shuffles his feet for a second. "I'm sure we will. Don't forget about the gala team, okay? It's in fifteen minutes."  
  
He didn't say that. "Pardon?"  
  
"I said don't forget about the gala team. You've got fifteen minutes until the meeting starts. The team leader should never be late. Bad form."  
  
I turn, leaving a hand on my desk for support. "You mean...I'm still..."  
  
"In charge. Yes."  
  
"But--"  
  
"But nothing.You were wrong, but we know about it now, and we're going to deal with it."  
  
Yes. The Chosen Ones will fix it all. That hurts.  
  
Perhaps sensing my bitterness, he adds, "Together. All of us. When we get back. Marles is going to rue the day he found out something was going down in the White House."  
  
"They'll think it's a smokescreen...that you're trying to distract..."  
  
He shrugs. "Probably. It may be a little bit of a smokescreen. But it'll be the right thing. The public needs to know that he knew something and kept the information to himself despite his responsibility to the American people. Right?"  
  
"I guess it could be spun that way."  
  
"It is that way. I'm sure of it." Someone calls his name. "I've got to go. I'll call you tonight, check up on things."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You're all right?"  
  
I don't know. I feel...warm. And comforted. I haven't felt like this in so long, it takes me a moment to recognise it. It's 'all right.' The problems haven't gone away, but I don't have to solve them on my own. Sam trusts me, even though I lied to him. It's 'all right.' I feel 'all right.' "Yeah, I'm all right," I reply with a smile.  
  
Smiling himself, Sam nods. "Great. Bye."  
  
"Bye."  
  
The door closes softly.  
  
The End.  



End file.
